


Mundus et Magicae

by CCNSurvivor



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Multi, character history, magic around the world
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-10-07 11:37:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17365220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CCNSurvivor/pseuds/CCNSurvivor
Summary: Travelling is a privilege, especially for a young witch whose very life, more often than not, has already been carefully mapped out. But Zelda Spellman has every intention of becoming a well-rounded woman one day, one who is as powerful as she is beautiful.(Ever wondered why Zelda reads all those different newspapers? Where she refined all those languages? Well, look no further)





	1. Venice

**Author's Note:**

> \- this is an exploration of Zelda's past across different time periods and countries in 6 parts: Venice, London, Japan, Paris,  
>  the US and Mexico  
> \- characters listed above will appear eventually, though this chapter only features Zelda and an OC. I will make a note of  
>  characters involved per chapter as I post them  
> \- tw: mild, extremely mild reference to self-harm  
> \- inspired by this piece of art by missy - which will feature more directly in a later chapter   
>  (http://meowsaidmissy.tumblr.com/post/181510437951/a-young-zelda-chillin-like-the-fabulous)   
> \- if you enjoy, please leave kudos or comments or feedback: it'd mean a lot, thank you :)   
> \- up next? London, Queen Victoria's coronation featuring Hilda pissed as a fart ;)

She is a young thing still and the world her oyster when she undertakes her first journey away from the relative safety of her coven. Travelling is a privilege, especially for a young witch whose very life, more often than not, has already been carefully mapped out. But Zelda Spellman has every intention of becoming a well-rounded woman one day, one who is as powerful as she is beautiful.

And so the first thing she learns is that excursions are not without hardship. By the time they reach Italy, she is weary to the bone and more than a little unsteady on her legs. Thankfully, she has long ago mastered the skill of not making a spectacle of herself and located a spot in the middle of the ship that minimises the motion which is making her head swim. The sea air has a bite to it and the sky above is blindingly blue. Another beautiful day has awoken around them, and they’re almost at their destination.

Zelda allows her lids to drift shut and tips her head back against the wooden mast of the vessel, grants herself the luxury of tasting the salt on her lips. The ship sways gently from side to side, bobbing along the surface of the water that is now guiding them into the harbour of Venice. And when she opens her eyes next, _La Belezza_ is looming on the horizon.

Terracotta houses mix with white-washed facades of the many palazzi, the roof tiles baking in the glistening winter sun. Spires and cupolas competing for the reign of the city. And everywhere around her, magic resonates, mythical and ancient.

Before the other passengers can notice their imminent arrival and squeeze their bodies and luggage out onto the open deck, Zelda swiftly rises to her feet and walks towards the bow of the ship. Like a figurehead she remains there perfectly still, her golden red hair flowing loosely in the wind. Her chest swells with the sigh of freedom and in her stomach the whisper of possibilities dance like butterflies.

Manoeuvring the vessel into the harbour is a precarious endeavour that requires eagle eyes and capable hands. It is as though the city itself is sucking them into the swirl of its ever-narrowing canals. Orders are being barked on either side of her and in the split-second pauses, the young sailors wipe sweat from their brows.

The contact with the wooden dock is abrupt but not violent, yet Zelda feels the after-sway of the ship as it struggles to adjust to the new rhythm. Her lips curl in distaste as she notices the throng of people eager to push their way onto firm land, their impatience most unbecoming. One by one they depart, families and friends, lovers and explorers, until only she is left.

She has gathered her skirts in one hand and is about to lift her luggage with the other when one of the young sailors approaches her.

“Would you like me to help?”

His teeth are shiny and white against the contrast of his sun-kissed skin. Zelda studies him thoughtfully then lets her eyes wander to the ugly elongated leather bag that contains all her worldly belongings – why her father insisted she’d use this rather than the handsome walnut drunk she received for her 15th birthday still escapes her.

“Certainly,” she grants at last and proceeds to disembark the ship with all the grace and fanfare of a queen. Her smile, she decides, more than enough remuneration for the sailor’s efforts.

Choosing the cradle of Roman Catholic faith as her first destination could have been scandalous and had, in fact, caused ripples of displeasure amongst her small coven in England. No insistent speeches about the history and culture, the splendid architecture and remarkable couture could sway the elders, and her wish had only been granted upon her father’s steadfast pledge that she would be living with and learning from Venice’s own humble but loyal branch of the Church of Night – _Il_ _Segno dell’ombra._ Satan forbid she’d miss her weekly mass.

“Zelda Spellman?”

The young man who is approaching cannot be much older than her, and she finds that she likes the way her name rolls off his lips, all hardened consonants and soft, calm vowels.

“Yes,” she answers diligently, her eyes skimming over his well-polished boots, plain trousers and loose white shirt that’s cut off just underneath the shoulders to reveal well-toned arms, “and who might you be?”

Likewise, he studies her with undisguised curiosity and then offers the lingering sailor a mocking grin. “Gaetano, Gaetano Machiavelli. Your father sent me to collect you.”

Before the moment can stretch on uncomfortably, Zelda dismisses the superfluous member of their group with a wave of her hand and with disappointment written all over his face, the sailor slinks away.

“Well, you have found me. A pleasure, I’m sure.”

Gaetano’s soft brown eyes trail lazily over her extended hand, then he turns around and walks away. In her indignation, (for he has neither offered the traditional peck, nor has he offered to carry her luggage) Zelda nearly remains behind. It’s merely her manners and her desire to make a positive first impression that stop her from making a scene and send her scuttling after him.

His strides are long and confident, allowing for little time to admire the new sights and sounds of which there are plenty. On their left, for example, luscious gardens bloom and beckon, and on their right the blue water of the lagoon bobs gently against the marina. The air is balmy and mild without the breeze of the sea, and even though it’s winter, Zelda finds her dress sticking uncomfortably to her stomach and chest.

“It’s customary to at least remove one’s hat when welcoming a lady,” she informs him curtly, five more minutes into their hasty trot along the periphery of the city. Out of breath and with a few strands of hair matted to her forehead, she is grateful for the small pause this jab awards.

Gaetano turns to look at her, his eyes twinkling with mirth. Dark curls are protruding unruly from underneath his threadbare cap. “Signorina, I apologise if I have caused offense. But we only just met, how could I have known that you were a lady?”

In that one moment, her tongue seems entirely disconnected from her brain, for whatever curses and hexes she thinks of somehow do not make it past her lips. What a rude, uncultured swine!

She can hear her brother chuckling in the back of her mind, and it only serves to make her angrier still. Edward would get a kick out of this, she thinks, stoically ignoring the melancholy that goes hand in hand with the absence of her siblings. He always did enjoy making her cross.

“Zelda, tesoro, time is of the essence. We have much still to do.”

And rolling her eyes heavenwards, she hurries after him.

They bypass the garden entirely and finally make a left into a quiet alley at whose end land gives way to water once more. She doesn’t have long enough to stare at the tiny boat that waits beyond – all willow rods and willow bark, held together by animal hide and tar – before Gaetano has already climbed in. He balances effortlessly on what essentially resembles a nutshell, and Zelda senses that there is no point discussing their mode of transportation. It’s either this or nothing, and she does not want to bring shame to the Spellman family name by appearing ungrateful.

Still managing the weight of his body very carefully, Gaetano helps her onboard the coracle and watches on in amusement as she arranges herself on the sole bench, her oversized bag squashed awkwardly on her lap. Then he reaches for the long wooden pole and starts thrusting them further down the narrow canal.

The soft splashing of the water and the gentle rumbling of wood against wood almost soothing in their rhythmical simplicity. They glide underneath small bridges and past dozens of windows outside which washing has been hung to dry. Occasionally, vendors wheel their wares along the lanes they pass, but nobody pays them much heed.

“Gondolas carry nobility and the rich,” Gaetano begins to explain at long last when they have successfully navigated the smaller canals and pushed away from the main city. “But we Islanders have our own method for getting around.”

Zelda frowns at that and crosses one leg over the other in a ridiculously unnecessary display of poise. “You do not reside here?”

Gaetano doesn’t look at her, but keeps his eyes peeled on the horizon and yet a second later it is as though all air and sound and scent has been pulled from existence, as though it’s only the two of them in a vacuum.

“My brothers and sisters were hunted out of Venice by the Holy Roman Emperor. We are fortunate to have escaped with our lives intact.”

She can hear her blood rushing through her veins, senses eyes upon her even though there are none.

“They took everything from us, our rituals, our shrines, our freedom. They have even banned the _Carnevale di Venezia_ , our most unholy festival. But they shall not take our faith.”

The moment passes and as the enchantment fades; colours, textures and sounds return once more. But her heart is still racing as she examines Gaetano.

“The islands are now our home,” he concludes calmly and no further word passes between them.

 

* * *

 

 Torcello is small but rich and green. As far as the eye can see there are vineyards, bushes and lawns, and here and there like spidery veins canals that bring water and life to nature and witchkind. Signs of human occupation are scarce to be found, save for the dock they arrive at and the looming bell tower in the distance.

Sand crunches under her feet as she follows Gaetano deep into the heart of the island and the sun is ruthlessly burning her scalp. Whatever elegance she possessed upon her arrival has been stripped entirely; the elements have claimed their due. Preserving her last shreds of dignity, however, is a precious goal and she succeeds by refusing to complain. Soon she will come face to face with this new coven, and if she cannot impress in appearance, she shall do so in fortitude of mind.

“Benvenuto, sorella,” Gaetano suddenly says and with a dramatic sweep of the hand conjures up a bridge of uneven white stone that possesses no railings. “ _Il ponte del diavolo_. Perfectly invisible to mortals and to those who believe in the false God. Those who wish to cross must take their chances in the water where the devil awaits. And by the time they have succeeded, my coven and I will have prepared or fled.”

“A smart solution,” Zelda grants who thinks with a slight grimace about the feeble ring of protection that lines her church at home, and for the first time her host seems pleased.

Together, they venture closer and closer to the cathedral and one by one, members of the _Segno dell’ombra_ emerge from the handful of houses that are dotted around the basilica. Men, women and children alike are clad in white with red ribbons tied around their middle, their dark hair long and unrestraint.

Dressed entirely in the sombre hues of the Church of Night, Zelda self-consciously adjusts her attire. She is naturally accustomed to being looked at, has carefully refined her methods of drawing attention. To consider rejection, however, is a shame that burns her flesh. How could she ever hope to return to England with her head held high? How could she look her father, her high priest in the eye?

Proudly, she tilts her chin up and summons an air of confidence she does not possess. She swallows, but fear catches like crushed glass in her throat. Gaetano’s eyes are on her.

The hum of whispers swells and swells and then dies with the arrival of a hefty figure. He does not look any different from the rest of the people that surround her, but he carries himself with importance and purpose.

“Ah, sister Zelda. We welcome your arrival with open arms. What a pleasure to have you in our midst!”

The swell of Italian washes over her like a warm summer rain and before she can tell what’s happening, she is swept into embrace after embrace, receiving unholy blessings and words of compliment. Albeit rigidly, she responds in kind.

Lorenzo, it turns out, is the high priest of the _Segno dell’ombra_ , their protector and guardian. He offers her a brief tour of the houses and vineyards, introduces her not only to the craft of the coven but also to the function of each and every member, before leaving her in the capable hands of Gaetano once more.

“I didn’t know you could actually speak Italian,” he mutters under his breath as he leads her away to a small lodging at the back of the basilica.

And with the greatest pleasure, she replies, “You didn’t pause to ask.”

From then one, his attitude towards her changes, and she revels in the quiet admiration she finds there now. The first triumph, she thinks, from which surely many more will abound.

While she washes herself and cleans herself of the dirt, grime and sweat of water and land, he respects her privacy, going only so far as to offer her fresh clothes upon her return. A white dress of cotton awaits on her bed and next to it a voluminous gown of midnight blue satin, interwoven with fine threads of silver.

“ _La luna_ ,” he explains, sticking to his native Italian, reverence ever-present in his tone, “our mother of darkness, long may she protect us.”

Zelda’s slender brows draw together in a frown. “You are all so different, it’s hard to imagine we all came from the same source.”

She can feel him studying her, his eyes drifting over her wet hair and small frame. “Why don’t you tell me a little bit about you, sister, and perhaps I can offer you answers?”

She considers this invitation and accepts once she has pulled the plain white dress over her silky undergarments. Gaetano makes as much space as he can next to the dresses on the sole available bed and grins with unbridled amusement when she struggles to position herself by his side with her usual elegance.

“You’re as pure as the Virgin Mary,” he quips, and she fans her lashes as one might do to bat away an insect.

“Of course. Until our sixteenth birthday we must refrain from sins of the flesh.”

She reaches past him and into her luggage until her fingers close around the neck of the ornate brush her grandmother has given her.

“Pity that you’re far advanced from that age by now.”

She pretends not to hear him and drags the brush through her hair with firm strokes until each strand is smooth and detangled.

“In the Church of Night, my body, my soul belongs to the Dark Lord. I may sin or marry – in fact marriage is highly encouraged to progress the unholy line of my family – but He holds absolute dominion over me. In exchange, I have received my powers. We are naturally aware of the strong magic that surrounds us, the elements, the mischievous spirits and deceitful demons that are lurking behind every corner. We may honour them at Samhain or ward off our houses against intrusion at Yuletide. But our faith binds us to Satan and Him alone. Consequently, any prayers and services will be devoted to Him.”

Gaetano listens closely and watches her hair shine in the space between them. For a moment it looks as though he might be tempted to touch it. Then he crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against the wall of the hut.

“That’s not so different from us. But we’re lagoon people, we’ve always been surrounded by nature. I suppose it was inevitable that we’d come to respect Her as we have to respect Satan. The whims of nature can be violent.”

“So can the wrath of the Dark Lord,” Zelda mutters without thinking and hastily clamps her hand over her mouth. Embarrassment causes a rose to blossom in her cheeks, but it’s the thorns that are strangling her, biting into her flesh.

“That’s one big difference,” Gaetano observes, “your faith in the north is so much about shame and punishment. It reeks of Catholicism.”

He makes it sound dirty and Zelda opens her mouth to protest.

“Do you deny it? Can you? Our faith is all about liberty, isn’t it? About power and freedom? Then why do you and your coven allow yourself to be put into shackles? Why do you kneel in shame before Him and punish yourself with whips and belts when you have sinned?”

His words are like honey on her tongue, thick and rich and saccharine with temptation. But her throat is too constricted to swallow them.

“Because our dark magic is endangered, as you ought to know only too well. We must tread carefully; that does include carrying ourselves with grace and dignity and suffer punishment if we become negligent.”

Rebellion ignites in his eyes like the first flash of lightning that cuts through a stormy sky. With much-practised civility, she lifts her hand to silence him.

“We shan’t find agreement, Gaetano, so let us be wise and shift our conversation to safer shores. Would you tell me more about _La Luna_ and that most marvellous dress right her?”

He sucks in a breath as though he’s winded, then inclines his head in reluctant assent. A wad of thick, dark curls fall into his face and hides his eyes. “The moon possesses a power that has never been explained, She steers the sea around us, She guides us when we can see but darkness wherever we look. There are no scriptures in Her name, no psalms or hymns to honour Her. She isn’t as concrete as faith or religion. She is flux and enigma, the stuff of legend.”

Zelda observes with something akin to fondness how his shoulders roll back and soften, how his breathing grows calmer. His profile is lit up by a smile that’s like a secret, something she is content to watch from a distance.

“And tonight, at the great _Carnevale di Venezia_ , devils and goblins and faes shall gather and feast and dance under Her shining light.”

“The carnival?” Zelda repeats incredulously. “I thought the carnival was outlawed?”

 “It was.”

“I thought it was a risk to venture into the city, to leave the safety of your enchantments here.”

“Most certainly,” Gaetano grins; he huffs out a breath which flicks his hair out of his eyes. And Zelda can see quite clearly that he isn’t toying but deadly serious. “But if we limit ourselves to Torcello what is it but a prison? The Dark Lord did not grant us freedom so that we may waste our talents and quiver in the face of the False God. No, sister, tonight we shall celebrate and rejoice in the deviousness of the _carnevale_. Tonight, we will show the Holy Roman Emperor, that we are not cowards!”

 

* * *

 

Midnight mass inside the island’s basilica very nearly defies description. In darkness the coven sit together, only their faces illuminated by the light of the candles they’re cradling in their laps. Prayers pass one by one in the space between them, whispered in ancient Latin, caressed by the warm, ephemeral sound of harps. The musicians are invisible on either side of the altar, only the sweeping movement of their hands and arms beckoning for attention.

This at least she can divulge in her first letter home, Zelda thinks. She cannot believe that her father would have permitted her to come, had he known what dangers she was about to embark upon. On her knees, she shifts lightly against the stone floor of the basilica, permitting the acute discomfort to distract her. She doesn’t wish to consider the alternative, not tonight. That perhaps her father had sent her here on purpose, so that she might be cured of her wanderlust. Or worse, because any harm that might befall her would not matter. She was not the firstborn son they’d wanted, after all. Zelda continues to apply pressure until her kneecap gnashes angrily against the stone and all dark thoughts disappear into the brilliance of pain. Instead, she considers Gaetano’s words anew and decides that there’s a kind of freedom in having nothing to lose.  
   
The mass ends an hour or so later when all the candles in the basilica have died.   
  
“Our Lord Satan,” Father Lorenzo concludes, “has returned us to darkness and in darkness we shall do as we please.”

She can hear the rustling of fabric around her, feel the warmth of the bodies by her side.

“Be free, children, and be merry. Look after one another and know that come morning, I will be here to welcome you.”

Like a collective sigh, the air around her trembles.

“Amen.” They say.

“Amen.” She agrees.

Then it all dissolves into movement and activity once more. She’s trying to find her way in the pitch black when someone comes and links arms with her.

“Gaetano told me to help you dress,” the voice of a woman whispers, “and we will reconvene in the piazza.”

 

* * *  


Zelda has never much liked lying, considered it too blunt a tool when deceit and manipulations were finer arts to be acquired. But more than that, she has always liked the succinct power that comes with honesty.

So tonight – and who is she kidding? – like most nights, she indulges her vanity and admits to herself and to those around her with perfect frankness that she looks utterly divine in the costume chosen for her. The black silk hugs her figure to perfection and the silver threads bring out the green in her eyes in a way she hadn’t anticipated but makes note of for future endeavours. It’s almost a shame, she thinks, that she will soon have to hide her face behind a mask. Her hair which has been brushed out flows freely in the wind, adorned only by a delicate moon pin of silver.

They are travelling by boat this time - the coracle would hardly have been appropriate – it’s long and sharp and smoothly glides through the water, carrying all six of them safely to their destination.

Tonight’s celebration will not be taking place on the _Piazza San Marco_ , she has been informed, but on a smaller square in the _sestiere_ of _Castello_. Its location in the North East of the city awards them with an easier route back to Torcello should they encounter trouble. And it appears that no-one suffers under the illusion that they won’t be attracting trouble tonight.

Zelda supposes she ought to be feeling weary after all the days of travel. But the thrill of the adventure nourishes her body and has her thirsting for more. The hum in the air around her, the ebb and flow of conversation does the rest.

The place they move towards can hardly warrant the title “square”, as it is a perfectly round circle enclosed by high-towering buildings. Banners and colourful pieces of cloth have been hung up on lines that criss-cross from one house to the next. Torches illuminate the scene in their crackling amber light that fills the air with the scent of smoke, warm like the bark of oak or walnut tree. A quartet of string instruments has set up on the topmost part of the circle, elevated for their benefit. The discordant notes of their tuning reverberate from walls and stones and do their part to add to the hum that’s evermore building and expanding.

The sea of masks that surround her with their expressionless visages is almost menacing. No-one is recognisable, and no-one can tell who is friend and who is foe.

And then, all sound dies.

The experience is not dissimilar to the enchantment Gaetano applied earlier that morning, but the quality is different, unrelated to witchcraft or magic. It’s a collective holding of breath, an awe-inspiring stillness as all eyes are on the procession that’s appeared out of nowhere and is making its way to the northern point of the circle.

A figure clad entirely in black robes, his face adorned by a mask, grey like crushed bone and pointy like the beak of a vulture, marches solemnly forward. Behind him trail figures dressed in plain white, their clothes torn and shabby, their faces painted to resemble pestilence and death.

They assemble in front of the musicians who stand frozen as well, and one by one the Plague Doctor tends to their ailments. He hunches over them, his black robes billowing ominously in the sea breeze that’s slipped through cracks and crevices in the buildings around them, and then all of a sudden, where once was despair and decay, new life is born.

Before her very own eyes, the figures in white transform, sprouting horns or wings, simple attire morphing into elegant gowns and costumes. And just like that, the _carnevale_ roars to life. There is raucous applause and shameless jubilance, music that rises all around her and a wave of emotion that leaves her dizzy.

It doesn’t take long before she finds herself swept up in the atmosphere, moving from one group of people to the next, her body entwining with every soul she encounters. Drunk on music and festivities, she stumbles on, magic and the intoxicating power of endless possibilities strumming in her veins. The whole night an exhilarating rush that she does not want to end.

An arm catches her around the waist and pulls her against a body that’s soft and firm at once. As they move to the tune of the string quartet, she can feel hips brushing against hers, the small mound of breasts. From behind the mask, soft brown eyes are watching her with unadulterated amusement. Familiar somehow, though she cannot place them.

She permits the figure to twirl her once, if only to take in their fluorescent garments. A fae, the queen of faes stands before her, dark hair falling in voluminous curls over her shoulder like a waterfall.

“Gaetano?” she whispers confused and immediately earns a hearty chuckle that confirms her suspicion.

His, her… _their?_ voice hasn’t changed much, is still as dark and smooth as stones that have relented to the power of the waves. She wonders if that’s why they wouldn’t remove their cap when they first met. She wonders why any of it should matter.

“Zelda,” they reply and then she’s being kissed, and it’s not at all like the chaste courtship or sticky fumbling she’s encountered so far.

It’s like drowning and gasping for air, like being singed but not burned. It’s addicting and overwhelming, and yet never quite enough for her heart that thunders and slams against her ribs, for her hungering body that twists and writhes by its own accord. For once, there is no room for propriety or rules. There’s only them, and she’s a young thing still, eager to bask in the whisper of opportunity.


	2. London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Edward can go traipsing all over the world with his mentor under the guise of wanting to become high priest, then she can be a part of a Christian service under the guise of witnessing history in the making. It’s only fair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Queen Victoria’s Coronation took place on 28th June 1838  
> \- I always wanted to explore Hilda's line in the Batibat episode  
> \- sorry it took me 2 months to write this, I used to be a super quick writer but since last June have struggled for   
>  some reason. Either way, I hope you enjoy and if you do, leave me a kudo or a comment. Thank you :)

“This is utter madness! We are sure to be excommunicated!”

“Only if we get caught. Now shush.”

It isn’t as though the notion hasn’t occurred to Zelda. As a matter of fact, it’s become a kind of mantra in her head since they used magic to break into Westminster Abbey. But she is young and she is angry and, really, what’s so bad about wanting to witness a coronation?

If Edward can go traipsing all over the world with his mentor under the guise of wanting to become high priest, then she can be a part of a Christian service under the guise of witnessing history in the making. It’s only fair.

Unfortunately, she knows too well that fairness isn’t a concept that exists in the Church of Night. Which is why she has dragged Delilah into this whole mess. The poor girl has no reason to be here and had steadfastly refused to any such undertaking – “Can’t we just stay for the celebration? I’m sure you can catch a glimpse of the new Queen from the park!” – until Zelda had so ruthlessly preyed on her pride that she had crumbled. After all, wasn't that what friends were for?

Now they’re both crouched behind a banister in the upper tract of the cathedral, trying to follow the coronation service as subtly as possible. Their long-flowing gowns are unceremoniously skirting the stone floor beneath them and as the hours wear on, Zelda comes to regret her choice of attire. For under crimson satin and brocade lurks the sharp cage of a corset which is digging into her ribs and skin.

Fed by the excitement of the masses below, the air around them is stiflingly hot and thick and filled with frankincense. How Victoria must feel, she wonders, barely eighteen and parentless, the eyes of an entire empire on her. Worshipped and hated at once.

As the choir commences another hymn, Zelda pushes her palms flat against the balustrade and dares to peek a bit more bravely over the edge. Dressed in an intricate white gown with golden cloak, the future queen sits on the throne. Through the large, inviting windows of the abbey light comes pouring in, illuminating her and only her. Regal, confident. Everything Zelda strives to be at all times. If only she could discover her own place in the world. Though it isn’t for wont of trying. She has finished her education at the Academy of Unseen Arts and could easily celebrate many successes as a midwife, just like her sister. But she wants something for herself, something that’s even more meaningful than bringing children into this world.

“Zelda! Zelda!” Her name on Delilah’s lips grows sharper with every repetition. Then a hand tugs on her puffy sleeve.

“What is it now?” Zelda snaps back, annoyed by the rude interruption that breaks her focus as well as her train of thought.

“Looks like it’s coming to an end. We’d better leave.”

And unfortunately, she realises that her friend is right. The guards have assumed their position and one by one the onlookers stand to applaud their new queen who will soon begin to lead a procession through the city of London, past the parks and her admiring people. No better time than the present to disappear while all eyes are elsewhere.

“If we must,” Zelda sighs dramatically nonetheless, before extending her hands to capture that of her friend. They focus their energies and train their minds on the little patch of grass behind the pond in Green Park where they materialise a moment later from a swirl of smoke. Praise Satan for granting them their power.

“I can’t believe that worked. I can’t believe we actually did that!” Delilah’s face is split open in a grin so wide she almost bares her teeth. The greed of the Church of Night terribly apparent within her. “And the evening has only just begun. Oh, Zee Zee, I cannot wait for the festivities. The suitors, the dancing!”

Zelda links arms with her, brushes off her attire and then navigates them towards the white roofs of the tents from which music comes spilling forth.

“It’s going to be exquisite,” she agrees, even though she feels strangely hollow inside. Because no matter how much she is trying to convince herself, tonight won’t change anything in the greater scheme of things.

* * *

 

Shockingly though about half an hour later, she finds herself as swept up in the festivities as Delilah predicted she would. Their beauty and confidence buys them entry into the grander tents where champagne flows freely and soon settles in her blood, clouding any lingering doubts. There are pastries, both savoury and sweet, that melt on her tongue, rich like butter. And even the occasional piece of conversation is bearable in light of all the new experiences she makes.

Outside, the night leaves behind its youth, turning the sky above the canopy of trees darker and darker as it slowly matures. Young gentleman slip out of their frocks and initiate dances in their shirtsleeves alone. Together, they hop and twirl gracefully across the floor until Zelda can feel a few strands of her hair threatening to escape the firm tightness of her pinned plaits. She pauses but for a moment and makes her excuses, turns to fix the mishap before it can come entirely undone and suddenly finds herself face to face with her sister. Her full, round face is beaming up at her and with her twinkling eyes and rosy cheeks she looks every bit the happiness Zelda craves.

“Hilda!” Her name leaves her lips in little more than an icy hiss and as her sister shrinks under her tone, she automatically grows taller and more menacing.

She imagines all eyes upon her, as though these strangers naturally know by some peculiar intuition that her younger sister has no place in this tent. In reality, of course, nobody has taken note of the siblings.

“What in Satan’s name do you think you’re doing here?”

“I…well I…” For a moment Hilda fumbles for words, her gaze straying across the floor as though she is willing the ground _not_ to swallow her up. “I am here to enjoy the coronation. One doesn’t often get to visit such momentous things up close, does one? Hi Delilah...h-hi…” She offers a little wave towards her friend before succumbing to nervous chuckles.

Impatiently, Zelda snatches at her arm and guides her away from the commotion to the opening of the festival tent. From outside, a gentle breeze drifts past them. Playful and warm and everything the atmosphere between them isn’t.

“Shouldn’t you be elsewhere helping mother?”

In a surprisingly stoic streak, Hilda tilts her chin up proudly. She, too, is immaculately dressed from head to toe. Her golden hair pulled back into an elaborate but loose bun that makes her look like a woman of an era that’s yet to come. Her floor-length gown of violet silk that flairs wide over her hips also beckons for attention.

“I decided I wanted to enjoy myself. Edward is. You are. So why not me?”

In Zelda’s pale green eyes something flashes dangerously. “Because you are too young and much too innocent for such frivolities. And I in no mood to hold your hand. Let’s face it, sister, you’d inevitably land us in some kind of mess.”

Hilda’s rosy cheeks are turning redder still. She puffs them out unintentionally as she wildly searches for the right words to convey her irritation.

“I’m not a child…Zelda…” she pushes out at last, the words mangled under the force of her teeth which she grits together. Every syllable belying the message she is trying to convey. “I don’t need you or anyone holding my hand. I’m…I’m not stupid or…or naïve.”

There is something in her tone that strikes Zelda as familiar, painfully familiar and therefore unreachable. And so she tilts her body away as though it’s utterly unsightly, lifting a hand to silence any further flow of information. “Either you’ll leave now, or I will contact mother.”

Petulantly, Hilda scoffs in contempt. “No, you won’t. Because then you’ll be in trouble, too.”

For a moment, all is silent between them. But there’s a hurt in Zelda’s eyes that pierces sharper than words.

“You really are that dumb, sister?” She steps closer, towering over her with barely restraint anger. “What must I do for you to see reason? You have everything. Mother and father coddle and spoil you. Edward adores you. You’ve endured the harrowing and developed a little bit of spunk. And now you have a successful career. You have played everything by the book. Don’t pretend now that you’re someone you’re not.”

Hilda’s lips part in indignation but for a beat or two nothing escapes. Beads of salt cling to her lashes and sting in her eyes until her sister fades into little more than a blurred outline of colours. She prefers her like that, faded, not concrete. Like a figment that doesn’t exist if she doesn’t want it to.

“You know, Zelda, for a woman who thinks she’s so smart, you’re really incredibly stupid.” For more, she doesn’t stick around and instead loses herself in the masses. She can find her own entertainment, Zelda be damned. She’s been doing so her entire childhood, after all.

For Zelda, however, it isn’t so easy. The mere presence of her sister has created an uncomfortable ambiguity inside her that no jolly music, no engaging company, no heady wine can distract her from. Her desire, her quest for individuation and a bit of selfish pleasure has once again become marred by the weight of responsibility. She knows what she ought to be doing, a pity only that it clashes with what she wants.

“Everything alright?” It’s Delilah who has inevitably appeared by her side. Zelda almost regrets coercing her into coming along. When she doesn’t answer, Delilah pushes again. “What was all that about?”

“Hilda has decided that today was the day to spit in my parents’ faces. Like the small, spoilt child that she is, she has figured that she might as well be having fun while everyone else was.”

“Well, I don’t see what’s so wrong with-“ Delilah stops abruptly, but it isn’t Zelda’s withering glare that’s the cause. “Wait, we don’t have to babysit her now, do we?”

“No, of course not, D. Don’t be preposterous. Hilda is an adult now.” And with one last scorching look, she disappears back into the masses herself.

Her attention, however, never strays far from her sister. Her sister who is making a spectacle of herself. Dancing with flailing arms, hugging strangers, inviting conversation. Enjoyment falling as easily into her lap as everything else.

And Zelda’s stomach is being pulled tight by bitter envy, bundled by knots of rage that cannot be smoothed. So in lieu of losing herself in the excitement of the affair, she sets herself a challenge. For the next two hours she doesn’t once look at Hilda. And when she finally does, her sister is nowhere to be found.

Although her cool demeanour might suggest otherwise, a wave of panic surges through her that ties her stomach in knots for different reasons entirely.

When they were little, no more than witchlings, and their mother still had time for them both, she used to tell them about the special bond that was said to exist between sisters. A bond that carried pain and anguish from one to the other like a live wire, a bond that united them in happiness and joy. But up until now Zelda had dismissed it as foolish romanticism or a desperate attempt to help two girls connect who had precious little in common. Now, in this one split-second of realisation she knows that it’s true. Because there is no rational explanation for that terrible plummeting feeling that persists and persists.

Something is wrong with Hilda because she abandoned her duties. Something is wrong with Hilda, and she has no idea where to find her.

The soft hum of violin, viola and cello slows and melts into one indistinguishable sludge of background sound. People spin around her in slow-motion, while Zelda’s eyes scan the crowd for a glimpse of those familiar blonde curls, or a fleck of garish purple. Instead, she finds only the stark absence staring back at her.

But Zelda pushes on, breaks through the black ice of terror to take a breath and then plunges back into the hunt.

“Delilah!” Her voice is raised slightly; enough, she thinks, to draw attention to herself but not too loudly to be considered unmannerly.

But the girl is much too wrapped up in her own flirtation to want to acknowledge her presence.

“Delilah!” Zelda insists, sharper this time, causing several heads to turn in her direction.

D, too, glances at her, her forehead crinkled in displeasure. “I’m occupied, Zee. Can’t it wait?”

She doesn’t offer a response and presses on. “Have you seen Hilda anywhere?”

Delilah has the audacity to roll her eyes at the man she’s dancing with and Zelda, clasping on to her few remaining shreds of self-control, thinks that she’s killed other witches for far less than that.

“I thought you said we wouldn’t have to babysit tonight, Zee. She’s probably gone off with someone. Let her be.”

There are too many things she wants to relay in that moment but can’t. That Hilda would never leave with a stranger. That she has no idea about her sister at all. But there’s no time and, what’s worse, Zelda knows that she has failed. Because tonight, perhaps, Hilda _would_ leave with a stranger. Because tonight she hadn’t been acting like herself at all.

Turning her back to Delilah, she pushes on to the last spot she remembers seeing her.

“I’m sorry, I’m looking for a young woman.”

She grabs and turns anyone she can reach, irrespective of their disgruntled demeanour, describing Hilda again and again. Time ticks ominously in her ears and somewhere a voice reminds her that too much can happen in two hours. London is vast, a maze of streets and boroughs and if Hilda’s strayed too far, she might never find her again.

Further minutes slip like sand through her fingers, minutes filled with snapshot images of childhood pleasures. Crafting mud castles with the power of their magic, playfully trying to best each other. Stealing biscuits from right under grandma’s nose with the aid of their very own brand of invisibility potion. Fond mementos of a time before their dark baptism, before the heavy weight of expectation started to exploit the cracks in their relationship.

“Are you looking for Hildegard, Miss?” The voice drifts to her, muffled underneath the sound of the other revellers. And when Zelda finally locates its source, she comes face to face with a tiny elderly man with warm eyes. “A lovely young woman called Hildegard, Miss? A bit smaller than you but very kind?”

“Yes, Sir. That’d be my sister. I appear to have lost sight of her.”

She forces calm into her body but fails dismally. At least, she thinks, the expression on her face conveys worry more than outright terror.

“We were having a lovely conversation before a young gentleman demanded her entire attention. Well, I was saddened, of course. But I thought ‘Let the children be’, I thought. After all, they seemed to have instant chemistry. Dancing and laughing.”

Impatience is marring her features of that she is sure, but somehow she restrains her tongue from voicing any of them.

“Next time I saw them, he was guiding her out of the tent. I had assumed they had come to an understanding of sorts. Had I known you were her chaperone I would naturally have interfered.”

Zelda turns away from him with little more than a courteous thank you and strides outside with purpose. But nowhere, not even in the periphery of her vision, can she catch a sign of her sister’s presence. It’s as though she’s been swallowed up entirely, as though she’s never existed.

_Please, Dark Lord, let me find her unharmed, and I will never question you again._

In response, nothing happens. The laughter and joy of the pleasure seekers assault her ears. Then there’s sulphur, the merest hint of it, carried to her nostrils by a breeze that’s unnaturally scorching. Zelda touches her cheek where the wind has marked her and focuses her attention inwards. Energy has bundled at the centre of her solar plexus; she folds her palm over it as if to cradle it close. As though the corset doesn’t restrict her anymore. She closes her eyes, she opens them again. She starts walking.

Her path leads her away from Buckingham Palace and through ominously black alleyways until she comes spilling out into the wide open lanes of Parliament Street. The pale white buildings that tower on either side of her a stark contrast to the dark fear inside.

She blocks it out as best she can and seeks solace in the abundance of energy that’s pooled in her abdomen once more. It connects her to Hilda, to those she loves, and she follows it ever more south until she reaches the banks of the Thames. It’s eerily silent and deserted. Anomalously so.

Zelda stops in her tracks and looks left and then right. No sign of life. But then at last, muffled as though through a thick curtain, her sister’s voice drifts to her.

Zelda rushes forward, crossing another empty street. She only pauses when she makes contact with the railing of stone in front of her. Beyond, a significant drop and further, the lapping water of the murky river.

Hilda has her arms flung around a young man whom Zelda does not recognise. His hair is black like ink but dusted at the tips with grey. He is slender and tall, almost skeletal and he’s feeding off her sister. She cannot say how she knows this, perhaps it’s a frail tremor in the air, maybe it’s an aura. At any rate, Zelda isn’t surprised when his head snaps around suddenly and dark red eyes pin her to the spot. It’s almost as if he’s smelled her, she thinks.

“Hilda, get away from him!” she yells, but the sound gets swallowed up by the wind. A magical barrier, an enchantment that’s meant to prohibit distractions.

His blood-red lips draw upwards in a malicious smile before he returns his full attention to her sister and begins disrobing her. His movements are sharp but calculated.

“Ooooh, saucy,” she hears Hilda whisper, but her eyes have lost all their shine.

She cannot say yet whether it’s the trance the incubus has cast upon her or whether she has realised by now what terrible danger she has ventured into.

With her heart beating in her throat, Zelda discards her heels and rushes down the washed out stone stairs and onto the banks of the river.

“Hilda! Come to me. Please!”

The incubus tilts his head and whispers something into her ear. And at last, her sister looks at her.

“You’re right. She _is_ jealous.”

“Nonsense, Hilda, and you know it. He is turning you against me. Don’t let him. You know what he is.”

In response, the couple move closer together until their bodies have become entirely entwined. Sensual intimacy crackles between them and Zelda soon finds herself nauseated by the erotic embrace, the lingering touches. She longs to stop what feels like intruding on something much too private but is unable to move.

Her sister needs her.

It happens when she opens her mouth to appeal to Hilda one last time. A voice, even less than a whisper, drifts towards her. It speaks in Latin and sounds soothingly familiar. But it cannot be her sister. Because her sister’s freedom is limited by the enchantment around her. Because the incubus only permits her to hear the words he wants her to.

But Zelda knows the truth even where understanding fails her. And soon the pleasurable sighs of the demon fade as his skin melts from his bones. Screams fill the air and now Hilda’s voice grows louder and louder, chanting, damning, banning.

For the briefest of moments, Zelda glances around to see if she must deter any onlookers – a memory wiping charm is easily enough done – but thankfully the continuing celebrations are keeping the people of London occupied enough. And when she looks back at her sister a minute later, there is little more than a small pile of ash at her feet.

“See, Zelds, I told you. I do not need a nanny. I am perfectly capable of handling myself.” Her proud statement is accompanied by a less glamorous hiccup, as Hilda proceeds to stand stark naked before her. Her levels of intoxication are obviously genuine.

“How marvellous, sister,” Zelda quips dryly in return, “I’m pleased you chose the Queen’s coronation for this unnecessary display of courage and strength. And for Satan’s sake, do put on some clothes.”

“No,” her sister insists stubbornly and there is something oddly endearing in the childish way her chin juts out as she tilts up her head.

“Then by all means, Hilda, freeze if it gives you pleasure.”

Zelda cannot resists rolling her eyes. It’s easier than acknowledging the relief that’s rushing through her all the while. Her hands shake. She hides them behind her back.

Unspoken sentiments drift between them like the murky water of the Thames behind them. Eventually it is Hilda who takes the first step closer.

“I am not helpless, Zelds. I’m not useless either.” Indignation shines in her kind blue eyes before giving way to an array of different emotions. “So consider yourself relieved of your burden.”

Zelda remains silent throughout it all, although her eyes never leave her sister’s. It’s instinctive, this knowledge that Hilda is referring to something other than her earlier hurtful words. And although she doesn’t yet know what’s behind it all, it’s the familiarity of the pain that pierces her and holds her frozen.

To Hilda, her silence, however, is like a slap in the face. Her shoulders slump in disappointment, and at long last she turns away and begins dressing herself.

“I overheard mother during high tea. You know what she’s like, chattering away to her friends with no regard for anything else around her. I suppose it’s no surprise to either of us how proud she is of Teddy. But I’d always thought…I felt that I…well, never mind that now, eh?”

“Oh for Satan’s sake, Hilda, don’t be vague.”

Although Zelda’s tone is chiding and sharp, the rest of her remains paralysed. Her lashes fan up and down rapidly to cast away the tears that are stinging in her eyes. Her breath is struggling in short bursts against her chest.

 She is certain that something dreadful is about to unfold. Just as she knows that there’s nothing she can do to stop it.

“Very well. I will be blunt and unkind like you. I had always thought that perhaps she was proud of me, too. She and father. Becoming a midwife, being warm and polite and perfectly domestic like any good witch should be. Silly me.”

She chuckles; a sound so breathy and light that it nearly breaks on itself. Tears splash onto her cheeks with the kind of ease Zelda has always hated and admired.

“I’m a burden. A dummy that just…toddles along. Without the commanding presence of her brother or the sharp intelligence of her sister. Aimless. Going nowhere.”

She does up her dress and awkwardly slips back into her shoes. The dignity she wishes to display woefully absent, as alcohol and upset emotions have rendered her clumsy.

Still, Zelda doesn’t move. In another time, she might have walked towards her and enveloped her in an embrace. She might have rubbed her back and soothed her with plain but honest words. But the time isn’t now and Zelda cannot yet do it. Too bound is she by her own conflicting emotions and her desperate desire to appear strong at all times.

It is the familiarity that wounds her the most, the intimate knowledge of what it feels like to be shunned and looked down upon by your parents.

“Imagine playing by the book your entire life and still not being good enough.”

Hilda has turned to face her and is challenging her to respond now. And in that moment Zelda acknowledges what she has realised already, that her sister is the strongest by far. She blinks but the moisture clouds her vision nonetheless. Her lips part, but her throat is so tight no sound escapes her. The first tear smacks down onto her cheek with starling force and settles on her skin like a mark. But it’s only when Hilda starts towards her that she finds her voice. Because she will not let herself be comforted. Not when it is Hilda who really needs the support tonight.

“Well, I’d say you’ve certainly proven yourself capable, sister. Charming and deceiving an incubus and banishing him are most assuredly the hallmarks of a capable witch.”

Almost immediately Hilda breaks into a watery smile that tugs at her heart and makes her hope that maybe they will be alright, after all.

“But the night has hardly begun and your little exploit has robbed me of at least one precious hour of celebration.”

She flicks her hair back into place, straightens her spine and walks with remarkable grace towards the stairs at which she had abandoned her shoes, all the while her sister trails after her.

“Have I…have I really robbed you of anything, Zelds?” She doesn’t need to turn around to know that Hilda is trying to needle her now. Young siblings often like to make themselves a nuisance. “Because I think you quite enjoyed this little adventure.”

“Nonsense,” she scoffs, slipping into her heels.

“I daresay you’ve even developed a taste for it.”

“Poppycock.”

“Oh…oh really, Zelda? Was it you or me that nearly got arrested in Venice? And who broke into Westminster Abbey?”

Hilda’s giggles accompany her on her walk back to Green Park, and Zelda thinks that it’s probably the nicest sound she’s heard all day.   
  


**Author's Note:**

> \- the carnevale really was outlawed in 1797 by the Holy Roman Emperor  
> \- there's no connection between the carnevale and magic/satanic faith, that's just my spin  
> \- Torcello is pretty and small and well worth a visit, the ponte del diavolo really does exist and has different myths attached to its name, though mine is entirely made up  
> \- faith is something that always changes and develops though certain pillars and principles might remain the same: I liked  
>  the notion of a coven that operates more on the principle of freedom and nature, yet comes from the same source as  
>  the Church of Night we see in CAOS  
> \- I figured Zelda would have discovered quite early on in her life that self-harm helps her cope, if only for a moment  
> \- Zelda is pan-sexual


End file.
